For That Single Strand
by Troodon
Summary: Concerning Feanor and his 'quest' to get a strand of hair...He wasn't about to be stopped by a simple refusal!


Author Note: An attempt at humour, combined witha very vicious rabid plot bunny, led to this...final product. I know there is a story out there (A Tale of Glorfy's Hairbrush, by Malara) that is initially close to this, but there is no connection between the two. Nerwen is Galadriel, and Feanor is...Feanor, who in my mind always calls Galadriel Nerwen. I think that's all. Thanks, and please review!

Summary: Concerning Feanor and his 'quest' to get a strand of hair...

_Disclaimer: The characters mentioned all belong to Tolkien and whatever publishing company. No profit is being made off this work of **fanfiction.**_

* * *

**For That Single Strand**

"Why would you want my hair?"

Feanor blinked at her. He thought he'd made that clear. Really, for a sharp-tongued and supposedly smart-witted princess, Nerwen could be incredibly dense at times like this.

"Why," he began again (was this a ploy of Nerwen's to hear more compliments?), sweeping his arms in a grandiose gesture, "To preserve their light forever, for all to admire! To honour their beauty and exquisite…uh, magnificence!" His arms windmilled. Tree twigs and leaves showered down on his head as an overzealous gesture connected with a tree branch. He swept the leaves from his head and dug bits of tree out of _his _hair, hoping he didn't look like some lousy monkey, scratching at its scalp for…

"No," she told him.

"What?" Feanor stopped and managed to still his arms. He had never thought she'd refuse…

"Stop talking nonsense trash," she said acidly, then stomped away, flinging her golden hair over her shoulders, as if to taunt him.

Ah. So she refused to give him even one single strand.

_(At this point, the author suspects there can be some joke inserted HERE, about refuse and trash and garbage…but the author shall leave the reader to make the, ahem, not-so-obvious connection, which has nothing much to do with the story anyway.)_

He stared after her, seeing only her hair, their rippling golden waves shimmering, silver glints highlighted with every swaying step, cascading down her back in a smooth waterfall, silky, glistening, _untangled_—

Feanor's brow furrowed. How does she—?

His eyes lit. Was he not Feanor, greatest of the Noldor? Was he not Feanor, the clever, the cunning? He would not be deterred by a single refusal!

As he started to run, he wondered where exactly Nerwen kept her hairbrush.

There _has_ to be _at least_ a strand _there_…right?

* * *

Feanor halted outside her rooms, recovering his breath, glancing around. No Nerwen in sight. He eased open the door a tiny crack. 

No Nerwen inside, either.

Well, did he expect her to sit and embroider butterflies all day?

He snickered rather un-Feanor-ingly, and was ashamed of that snicker even as he was snickering. At least there was no one to hear—

"WHO'S--oh, mylord FEANOR!" A serving maid popped in…like a gopher from a hole, he thought distractedly…oh, did she hear him _snicker_? Oh, damn!

"Where is Nerwen?" he asked.

"She's BRUSHING her HAIR, my lord," the maid's voice was loud and inclined to put emphasis on the wrong words. Feanor gritted his teeth. "Will you SIT DOWN, lord FEANOR?"

Damn it! Damn—

_(Error has occurred. Unable to process Feanor's mental fury. Content deleted.) _

"Feanor." Nerwen appeared, her eyes glinting. The gopher had vanished, Feanor noted, and immediately wished _he_ was theone with a hole to disappear into. How very small the room suddenly seemed! And _was_ Nerwen turning green?

Her brush was in her hand. She noticed his gaze on it, and smiled slowly. She tucked the brush inside a hidden pocket in her robes.

"I…ah, well…" Feanor managed to say _somethin_g…he didn't really know what…and got himself safely out the door into the hall. He stood there, trying toregain his usual poise and manner.

Why had he…run away—_hopped_—like a quivering rabbit? Was he not Feanor, greatest of the Noldor? Was he not Feanor, the clever, the cunning? _Was he not Feanor? _

Nerwen had tucked it inside her robes. His dark eyes flashed.

He set off once again, this time to…bribe the laundry maid.

But of course, reader, you know...

Don't you?

…That it would all be in vain.

Would it?


End file.
